Page 104 of Haunting the Hunter
I shove the ropes off, fingers already reaching for the gun. I cock it—clean, smooth, loaded. The bullet gleams in the chamber, the clip full.
It’s not my style—I tend to prefer knives—but this’ll work.
“I’m ready,” I rasp, throat still dry as fuck.
“Your guy’s waiting about half a mile up the road,” Ben says, quick and clipped as he shuffles toward the door. “You’ll follow me down the hall, up the stairs. The window in the parlor’s unlocked. If we get caught”—he nods toward the pistol—“use that.”
I stand, breath hitching at the pain that shoots through my ribs, and look down at Genevieve, brow raised.
She nods—tight but solid, her hands fluttering.
“What’s security look like?” I ask, already mapping the path in my head as I roll my neck, cracking it.
“Frank’s out cold. Guards at the front and back. Side patrols rotate every ten minutes. We’ve handled the cameras. If we time it right, we’re ghosts. I’ll stay close—cover you if anything goes sideways.”
I nod once, mind focused on the plan. “All right. Let’s go.”
Pain claws through my skin like barbed wire dragged across raw muscle—but I can walk. I can kill. Let’s get the fuck out of here.
I slip out the door and into the hallway, leaving the stench of rot and mold behind. The shift in the air hits me like a slap—cleaner, colder,wrong.
Overstimulation crashes down hard; the lights too bright, the walls too open. My body’s screaming, and my brain is lagging behind. But I force myself to move.
One step. Then another.
Up the stairs. Down the hall.
The parlor looms ahead of us.
I stop just before crossing into view, pressing myself to the wall. My eyes scan the room: heavy curtains, aged wood, the faint scent of dust and wood polish.
Ben is a shadow behind me, his gun raised, jaw tight. Genevieve’s between us, shoulders curled inward, making herself small. Her eyes flicker to mine—wide and terrified. She’s trying not to shake. I nod at her and turn back.
I slip into the parlor, slow and deliberate, each step a silent promise.
Ben follows, stopping just beyond the doorway. He nods, gesturing toward the window with a tilt of his chin.
He throws his fist in the air and I still.
Footsteps crunch outside. They are slow, deliberate, shadows moving across the curtains. I hear armor shifting and clinking, the unmistakable sound of rifles brushing tactical vests… Then, the sound fades.
I creep to the window, unlatch it, and ease it open inch by inch, cold air kissing my face.
I duck and lower myself through the opening, dropping into a silent crouch on the grass below. My eyes scan the area—we’re clear.
I look up—Genevieve is hesitating at the window. I reach up, catch her waist, and slowly pull her through, her body pressed against mine. Her breath is quick against my neck as I set her down, eyes already back on the window.
Ben lands beside us with a quiet thud, pistol still drawn. He points toward the front of the property, and we move silently through the night.
Backs pressed to the outer wall, we inch toward the road. Our every step is calculated, every breath shallow. The open air feels too exposed compared to the stifled air of the basement. The gravel crunches beneath my boots despite how light I try to move.
I fight the urge to sprint, my legs twitch with instinct, bracing to bolt. But as I glance at Genevieve—she’s trembling. Her eyes lock on mine, her pupils blown wide with panic. Her breath catches in her throat, chest rising slow and deep like she’s trying to stay calm, trying to match my rhythm. I give her another nod, a hopefully reassuring look.
I peek around the edge of the structure and see the two guards, standing right where we need to be. Their stances are loose but alert.
Trained.
We’re not getting past them without blood.
